


In Shadows of the Afternoon

by PotatoCat



Series: the mark of a man [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 20:39:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11836632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PotatoCat/pseuds/PotatoCat
Summary: On the one hand, he’s pretty sure his contract has a clause about not interacting with dangerous animals, but on the other hand if it fits in the bushes how dangerous can it be, and then on the mutant third hand Kent’s building doesn’t allow pets so what if the bush creature is super cute and he wants to keep it?





	In Shadows of the Afternoon

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to tori for walking me through this for actual months, and to pj for the beta. my first writing in over a decade wouldn't be out in the world without you and the rest of the cluster pucks so thanks bros
> 
> title from "Plea from a Cat Named Virtute" by The Weakerthans

The car chirps at Kent as he hits the lock button and heads across the parking lot. He sighs. At least the car had been easy to pick out. He’s seen about 15 different listings and he’s no closer to finding a place to live than he was when he started looking. There’s nothing wrong with any of the houses he’s been to, which is part of the problem. How is he supposed to narrow it down? He doesn’t even really know what he’s looking for, let alone what he doesn’t want. All he knows is that none of them have stood out at all and he’s exhausted already and he really only has a couple months to get this sorted out before training for the next season starts and he’ll be too busy.

As he crosses the lot he makes a note of which of the rookies are home. He’s been meaning to talk to them about not leaving their gear in their cars, and then talk to them about how he’s moving out and won’t be around to mom them anymore when they don’t know how to grocery shop for themselves or do their laundry.

The final steps up to his building- the same month-to-month bland apartment he’s been in since he signed his first contract with the Aces- take him past somewhat overgrown bushes. There’s no reason he should especially notice them today, except- He thinks he might have heard- He doesn’t know what but it certainly wasn’t the bushes making that horrible croaking sound.

Kent pauses and chews at his lip. On the one hand, he’s pretty sure his contract has a clause about not interacting with dangerous animals, but on the other hand if it fits in the bushes how dangerous can it be, and then on the mutant third hand Kent’s building doesn’t allow pets so what if the bush creature is super cute and he wants to keep it? Not that it would be disastrous since he’s moving out anyway, but it’s not like he’s found a place yet and what if he can’t?

Kent sighs and looks around, already feeling vaguely guilty. He drops his gear bag on the sidewalk and kneels down, dried out mulch biting into his knees, to peer into the branches. The bushes rustle a little bit and the blazing sunshine cuts through just enough for Kent to make out movement and - maybe eyes glowing back at him? He might have to- Yeah he’s definitely going to have to lay flat to reach the thing, so he’s really hoping it’s something normal and not like a possum or some shit. His hands are in the dirt now, and he huffs a laugh thinking about what his legs must look like sticking out of this apartment landscaping. There hasn’t been any more rustling so he shimmies forward and stretches a hand toward where he saw the eyes. His fingertips brush- well it’s not soft exactly but it’s definitely fuzzy and alive and leaning into his hand a little, so he strains just a little bit farther, mulch and branches scratching at him, dirt seeping wet patches into the undershirt he wore home from practice, and he’s just. About. Able to close his hand gently around probably the smallest creature he’s ever held.

Kent brings his other hand up to cradle the thing as he wriggles backwards out of the bushes on his knees and elbows. He sits back on his heels to pull his shoulders free of the last branches. He finally gets a good look at the creature, which turns out to be the least adorable kitten he’s ever seen, and it gets a good look at him, and he must be the least adorable person the kitten’s ever seen because it lets out another horrible croak that then swings up into a high pitched squeal that just. Keeps. Going.

Kent frantically shushes the kitten which doesn’t help at all, and he’s pretty sure the people across the street are looking at him so he does the only thing he can and tucks the kitten up under the hem of his shirt, holding the whole situation together by clamping his arm across his belly so the kitten has somewhere to rest. He turns to the people who are, yep, definitely staring. Kent offers them a wave and a- well, he was going for a smile/friendly nod combo but the kitten or maybe its fleas bite into the soft skin of his belly and whatever ends up on Kent’s face has his neighbors visibly recoiling. Well. He gave it a shot, anyway. Community engagement.

Kent turns back to his building, awkwardly picks up his gear bag from the sidewalk, and even more awkwardly shuffles inside to the elevator, praying to whatever entity protects ugly kittens that no one will get in with them. The kitten is wiggling around with its tiny baby claws pricking Kent’s skin and it’s a relief when the bell dings and the doors slide open. The ride up to Kent’s floor is thankfully short and the minute he’s got everything through the door he pulls his shirt off and bundles it around the kitten. It had been quiet once they got inside, probably saving it up, because now it starts up the horrible squeaky croaking again, but ten times louder. Kent’s brain shorts out for a panicky moment and then he’s got the whole bundle tucked up under his chin, murmuring over the kitten’s tiny screams as he makes his way as smoothly and quickly as possible to his bedroom. 

He gets the closet door open, drags his laundry basket down one-handed, wincing at how the weight of it twists his wrist awkwardly. He drops the basket to the floor and gently deposits the kitten bundle inside. It’s dwarfed by the basket, and Kent’s chest aches at how unreasonably small the thing is, all tiny legs and poky little tail and big scared, kinda gross and crusty eyes. Which. Ok so the kitten is safe now but Kent should probably call a vet or shelter or something where it can go to get healthy and they’ll find a home for it and he’ll never see it again even though he saved it and it’s not even screaming at him anymore. Instead it’s standing on spindly little legs and silently opening its teeny mouth to reveal miniscule teeth that still hurt like a bitch when Kent can’t resist poking his pinky against them and the kitten chomps down because right, it probably hasn’t eaten in a while. Kent doesn’t have cat food, obviously, doesn’t even know if the kitten is big enough to eat that anyway, but it has to eat something. 

Kent makes himself get up off the floor, reluctant to take his eyes off the baby, and heads for the kitchen. He’s got some salmon fillets in the fridge so he takes one out, chops it pretty fine or a little mushed to be honest but whatever, the kitten isn’t going to care. He scrapes it off onto the lid from an old takeout container because again, the kitten isn’t judging him for not breaking out the fine china. He takes a step towards his room before remembering that pets need water. All the bowls he has are big enough to give him visions of the kitten falling in so he fills a shot glass from the water dispenser on his fridge and takes everything back to his room.

The second Kent crosses the threshold the kitten starts crying and scrabbling at the sides of the basket. He quickly kneels to set down the fish, which the kitten promptly attacks with so much enthusiasm that Kent’s afraid it’ll choke. He wraps a hand around it to pull it back, feels its little ribs moving, and he’s taken aback at how strong it is as it’s straining towards the fish mush. He lets it go, figuring it’ll sort itself out, and sets the water glass down too. With that settled, Kent pushes himself up and back onto his bed, reaching under his spare pillow for his laptop to look up a vet or a shelter or whatever. When his browser page loads, his email tab is still up and he watches it refresh with a new one from the agent that’s helping him find a new apartment. She’s got more listings she wants him to look over, because even more choices is exactly what’s going to help him narrow it down. He clicks over to a new tab and types “animal shelters,” lets it autocomplete the “near me,” clicks the first link, and is immediately heartbroken at all the sad kitten faces under the heading “Seeking foster homes! Our shelter is at capacity!” This shelter cannot help his kitten, they can’t help the kittens they’ve already got. He drops $1000 on their donate button and goes to the next listed shelter only to find more of the same. A little research tells him it’s kitten season, which what the fuck how do kittens have a season, but even in the kitten offseason most shelters are apparently underfunded, understaffed, and over capacity. Kent shoots an email the Ace’s PR intern, who is probably also underfunded and overworked if he’s being honest, about the team maybe working with a shelter, maybe an adoption event or a charity run or something.

While he’s doing this he keeps an eye on the kitten, making sure it hasn’t choked or escaped or otherwise become a Situation. It hasn’t, it’s curled up in his discarded undershirt, and Kent can’t resist rolling over to shuffle down his bed on his belly and scoop the kitten up one-handed. It fits snugly in his palm and cuddles its little face against his curled fingers, the fluffy mohawk on its forehead soft in comparison to the bald patches above its giant eyes. Kent rolls back over, gently deposits the kitten on his chest before awkwardly crabwalking up his bed to his laptop again. Propped against his pillows, computer hot on his belly, Kent holds perfectly still while the kitten clumsily steps across his chest, soft tiny paw pads and pointy little claws dotting the bare skin. The kitten slides a little as it gets to his neck, lets out a peep as it falls against his throat, and apparently decides that’s as good as it’s gonna get because it lies down and settles in. Kent brings a hand up to rest over it, the vibrations of the kitten’s purring reverberating through his hand, and he gets that pang in his chest again.

For a second he lets himself think about it. What if he kept it? Like, what would he do? He’s away a lot, but it seems like maybe cats are better at that than dogs, and he knows loads of guys who have dogs. He could get someone to feed the kitten while he’s away, people can be hired to do that stuff. Kent runs his fingers over the kitten. It’s so small, and it might have health issues from living in the bushes of his apartment for who knows how long, so he would need to find a vet. The kitten’s belly is round now that it’s full of fish but he’s pretty sure its ribs and pelvis are way more pronounced than they’re supposed to be. He needs to get food as soon as possible, and also a litter box. He opens a new tab on his laptop, starts making a list. Do cats have beds like dogs? He googles a bit and apparently they do, and they also like big ugly carpeted platforms that cost a lot for some plywood but cats need to scratch? But getting cats declawed is a thing, he thinks, so he looks that up and immediately blanches at the description of the process. He strokes the kitten and murmurs apologies to it, adding scratching boards to his list. The more searching he does, the more necessities he finds. He orders some of it online and pays for the fastest delivery available, reasoning that even if he doesn’t get to keep the kitten he can at least send it to its real home with proper supplies. He emails the list to himself so can open it on his phone later when he takes the kitten to the store to pick out some toys because apparently some stores just let you do that. While he’s still in his email he clicks through the listings his realtor sent him. This time while he looks he finds himself thinking about where he could maybe put one of those carpeted tree things for the kitten, which, shit, he’s renting and some of these places aren’t going to let him have a cat. He types out a quick email asking his realtor if she could start filtering the listings that way, just in case, and gets a response almost immediately confirming that she can.

Kent lets out a sigh of relief and he’s startled at how much better he feels just knowing that the kitten could stay with him if it had to. He jostles it a little with his fingertips and gets an increase in the purring for his troubles, along with the tiniest, cutest kneading motions on his neck, which, fuck, actually hurt like a bitch. Between that and it being time for his afternoon nap, Kent makes the executive decision that the kitten needs to go back to the laundry basket. He feels guilty already, wants to let it sleep on his neck forever, but the thought of squishing it or having it fall off the bed is already making him nervous and he needs to be able to sleep.

He closes his laptop and shoves it back under his extra pillow, wraps one hand around the kitten and slides over to drop it gently in the basket. He feels bad putting it back on his gross undershirt though, so he hauls himself up to look for maybe an extra towel or something now that the kitten is no longer an emergency. What he finds in his closet instead is a bunch of empty shelves he normally uses for towels and sheets, because he literally cannot recall when he last did laundry, and a couple boxes he apparently has never gotten around to unpacking. He thinks one of those might be pillowcases or something so he peels the tape from the cardboard and hopes real hard but the box is full of crinkled paper wrapped around old awards from Kent’s years in juniors. He huffs out a breath, annoyed, and sets the box aside, turns to his tshirt shelf to see if there’s one he can spare for kitten purposes. He pushes the stack of his favorite shirts over a little and as he reaches toward the back of the shelf looking for the ugly ones his fingers hit jersey fabric. He grabs it and damn if he isn’t about to win that bet with the Aces’ equipment manager, he fucking knew he hadn’t lost that jersey. Once he’s got it in the light though, he realizes it’s not Aces’ black and white but instead the bright primary colors of his juniors team. Kent shakes the jersey out, smiling a little at the familiar logo before he notices the C on the chest. Heart sinking, he turns the sweater over to see “Zimmermann” stretched across the shoulders in bright white, all caps, and he swallows hard, folds the jersey up again and drops it in the box he just opened. He can’t get the tape to stick again, it’s too old, so he folds the flaps closed with shaking hands.

Kent grabs the first shirt in his stack of clean ones and switches it out with the gross one in the kitten’s basket. The kitten chirps at him, clings a little to the undershirt and he has to carefully unhook its tiny claws. He runs a finger over the kitten’s fluffy back, swallows again. He stands, hits the light, plugs his phone in to charge, and lies down on his bed on top of the comforter. He closes his eyes. 

He doesn't sleep.


End file.
